Chapter 8 You’re Allergic to Friends #2
The line goes dead before I can finish my sentence, and I lean up against the counter, sipping my newly-spiked coffee and ignoring the low growl of my stomach.
I grab my keys, my hat, and my jacket, before hopping in the truck and heading down the long driveway toward the main road.
I need to fix this first, and then I can eat.
The tires jump, kicking over rocks and debris the storm left behind, and I make a left turn toward what’s left of Babylon, passing by the old abandoned church my daddy used to preach in.
It’s condemned now, with most of the aging stained glass windows boarded up in an effort to save them from storms over the years.
It’s another five minutes or so of swerving around random stuff the tornado left behind, but eventually I spot the car: a brown sedan with the bumper and tail lights halfway torn off.
“I sure hope this is yours, little rabbit.”
Windows punched out, shattered glass strewn all over the sidewalk…
looks like she was luckier than I thought.
I pull up beside the car, in time to spot Raphael’s big black pickup approaching, heavy metal blasting from the speakers.
I don’t know how he listens to that shit.
Feels like half the songs don’t even have lyrics, it’s just screaming.
Raph pulls over to the side of the road and kills the engine, climbing out with a deep scowl already etched onto his face.
He’s in a maroon Henley with faded blue jeans and cowboy boots, his usual black ball cap turned backwards, with long dark blond hair peeking out from underneath it.
He’s always been the more boyish looking one out of the two of us, but he balances that out with his death-stares.
“Where is she?” He asks. More of demand, really.
“Good morning to you too.”
His piercing green eyes turn icy the moment they meet mine.
“Don’t fuck around with me, Preacher. Where is she?”
“I told you, she’s out cold, chained up in the storm cellar. You feelin’ okay, pal?”
Usually his memory’s not this shitty, unless of course he spent the whole drive so pissed that he practically forgot our entire conversation.
“I’m fine,” he grinds out before flicking his head toward the ditch. “You wanna play fuckin’ detective or something? How do you even know this is her car?”
Actually, that sounds about right.
“Took an educated guess,” I shrug. “Not too many people live around here, and by now I know all their vehicles by heart. Sure, maybe it’s some other passerby, but if it is… where the fuck are they? Storm’s been gone for hours.”
Raphael clicks his tongue, glancing around cautiously before he heads around the back and lifts the loose trunk open.
I immediately spot a large black duffel bag tucked in the back, conspicuous enough for being all on its own.
Raph and I go for it at the same time, but I’m faster, managing to shove him away.
He mutters more curses under his breath as I open it up.
“Wigs, some clothes, zip ties… Jesus, duct tape, and some plastic bags.” I sigh. “Well, she’s definitely running from something. That, or someone was running from her.”
I rifle through the rest of the bag until I find an ID stuffed into an inside-pocket.
“Pleasure to meet you, Christine Annabelle Winter.”
Even in a black and white photo her eyes are startling; pretty, but there’s something empty about them. It’s that dead eyed psychopathic stare I’ve only seen a couple times before.
Hollow.
A thrill runs through me.
No, my luck can’t possibly be that good.
“Aww, that’s sweet,” Raphael hums. “You get to know her full name for when you’re slicing and dicing.”
“I told you, I’m not killing—”
I stop mid-sentence, my fingers wrapping around something soft and squishy at the bottom of the bag, pulling it out from under a bundle of clothes.
“Well that’s… something.”
I blink, still not quite sure if I’m seeing straight.
“Jeeeesus Christ!” Raphael groans. “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me!”
I let out a bemused chuckle, slowly unwrapping what looks to be a human tongue from some plastic.
I should probably be more worried, a little more eager to get back home and check on our would-be psychopath, but the only urge I feel is to take a look at her handiwork— if it’s even hers.
It’s a hack job, no pun intended. Looks like it was done in a hurry, and by someone wholly inexperienced with butchering.
Well, at least one kind. The cuts are jagged, almost like she sawed it out. That takes energy. Rage.
Or maybe....
“What are we thinking?” Raph asks. “Contract killer? Passionate hobbyist?”
I run my thumb over the velvety flesh.
“Maybe.”
Trophies are specific, and very personal to each killer.
I’ve heard of some that take eyes because they view them as the windows to the soul.
Others take jewelry, body parts, lingerie, locks of hair— hell, even makeup.
I chose skin, in part because it’s practical and easy to hide once it’s been worked on, but I’d be lying if I said wearing a dirty little secret wasn’t exciting.
What are the odds that this woman would stumble into my storm cellar? And what are the odds that she’s just like me? Right now? I’d say pretty damn high.
I need to talk to her, figure out what the hell’s going on.
“You want my advice?” Raph plucks Christine’s ID from my hand. “Move the car, just in case the cops pass through. Hide it somewhere they’re not gonna find it and come snooping, and…”
“And?”
“And kill her, before she causes any more goddamn problems.”
His boots crunch over the gravel as he trudges back to his truck.
“Where are you going?” I ask, my eyes still fixed on the severed tongue.
“Research. And I wanna get the fuck outta here before you whip your dick out or somethin’. Just remember what I said: you need to deal with her. Also, not for nothing, but we could sell her for some serious cash if we found the right people. Either way, she needs to get gone.”
That’s all he’s concerned with at this point. He doesn’t care about my rules, and he doesn’t appreciate the artistry of what I do.
But maybe she will.